by Priya Grey
Chad shrugged. “Alright.”
Abby began to play again. I turned to Chad and said, “I’m going back up front.”
Chad shot me a pleading look. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll just wait here. I think I’m getting tendinitis in my right ear.”
“Okay,” I replied, and made my way through the crowd, toward the front of the stage. As I listened to Abby play the final set of songs, I couldn’t help but look around the room. Even though the last thing I wanted was to see you, I couldn’t help but wonder if you were still in the club.
What the fuck was your problem? That’s what kept racing through my mind. I was the one who should have been pissed off: not you. You disappeared after having sex with me. When I returned from the sound studio, you and all your things were gone. You didn’t even leave a note. All you left behind was my handkerchief. That’s when I realized I had been played. I was just a trophy to you. You were like all those other women who wanted to sleep with me, just so they could brag about it to their friends. At least that’s what I convinced myself to believe. How else could I explain your sudden disappearance?
When I came home and saw that you were gone, I considered texting you. But I decided not to give you that satisfaction. I thought we had a real connection. But after you disappeared, I realized it must have been an illusion. It pissed me off. Your actions only reinforced everything my mother had warned me about. I decided to shut you out of my life. I had my accountant reach out to you regarding the necessary paperwork for playing on Melody Swanson’s album. But I, personally, would have nothing to do with you anymore. So imagine my surprise when I ran into you, ten years later, and you were the one giving me an attitude. You were acting like I was the jerk. What the fuck?
What got me even angrier… was that I couldn’t let it go. At the after party, following The Nasty Explosion’s show, I stood near the small bar and kept scanning the room, looking for you. And when my eyes finally found you, I had to force myself to turn away.
Forget about her, I kept telling myself. She used you. She can’t be trusted.
But no matter how much I tried to stop myself, I kept peering back across the bar. Who was that guy standing next to you? Was he your husband? I snuck a peak and didn’t see a ring on your finger. Boyfriend then? I watched as he put his arm around your waist. You two seemed intimate, but it didn’t look natural. You might have been dating that guy, but your body language indicated you weren’t that into him.
When you looked up, our eyes locked once again. I couldn’t believe it. Ten years later and I still felt a spellbinding attraction to you. What was it about you that I just couldn’t shake? I guess this kind of thing can never be explained. Some people, for no identifiable reason, draw you in, no matter how much you fight it. And I tried to fight it, believe me. Back then, I convinced myself that I wanted nothing to do with you, even though I was having a really hard time breaking eye contact. You were still beautiful. Your hair was a little shorter; but your face still had that nice warm glow.
Fuck this, I told myself. Look away. Don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing you’re still attracted to her.
But I couldn’t fight this battle on my own. I needed alcohol and lots of it. I stepped to the bar and did two shots of whiskey, followed by a beer. Back then, in my mid-thirties, I drank more than I had in my twenties. All these years later, I realize why. I was drinking to numb the pain, to escape my sense of isolation, my loneliness. My career was on an amazing trajectory. I had made more money than I could spend in a lifetime. And I had produced or written more number one hits than anyone else in the history of music. But that empty feeling was still there. No matter what I did, it was always by my side. No matter how many awards I received, or parties I went to, or women I fucked, nothing could keep it at bay. For a brief moment, in my twenties, when I met you, I thought you might be the antidote. But then you left...
Although I hated my weakness, I glanced across the bar and stared at you once again. Why did you have to look so good? I had a flashback to our time in LA, as we lay together in my bed. I remembered the warmth of your lips, and the way your eyes lit up when you smiled.
When you glanced in my direction, I quickly looked away. I turned to the bartender and ordered another shot. After downing it, I watched a woman – the violinist who had played on stage – approach you. The two of you hugged and were very friendly.
It was probably the alcohol working its twisted logic, but that’s when I took action. I needed to know exactly why you were pissed off at me, especially when you were the one who left.
“Excuse me, Miss? My name’s Sebastian Lewis. I just wanted to congratulate you on a fantastic performance. Your playing was exceptional.”
Your friend’s face lit up, in shock by my presence. She quickly said thank you and shook my hand. “No need for introductions. I know who you are, Mr. Lewis. Oh my God, thank you. That means so much coming from you.”
I wasn’t lying. Your friend, who I later found out was named Abby, played very well. And she appeared visibly ecstatic by my compliment. “Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve been praying our paths would cross. You don’t know how much of a fan I am of your work,” Abby gushed. “You’re a pioneer in the industry.”
“Thanks,” I muttered as I took a swig from my beer. I glanced quickly in your direction and noticed you were ignoring me... on purpose, I assumed.
“Do you have any openings on your next album for a violinist?”
Abby’s question threw me off guard. She was a go-getter; I’ll give her that.
“Um… I might.” Then a light bulb went off in my head. “Would you like to discuss it over tapas?” I asked.
“Tapas!” exclaimed Abby.
Abby turned and looked at you. You were still ignoring us, your face turned in the opposite direction.
“I know a great place around the corner. Why don’t you and your friends join us?”
You had no choice but to acknowledge my presence now.
“I don’t think so,” you replied, shooting me a cold stare.
“Come on, Em. Don’t be such a buzz-kill,” whined Abby. “Let’s go. It will be fun.”
You and Abby exchanged a look. It was clear the two of you were having a silent conversation with your eyes. I got the impression Abby was imploring you to join us with her stare.
You eventually caved. “Fine,” you mumbled. Then you finally acknowledged me, annoyed. I noticed your boyfriend staring at us.
“Sebastian,” I said as I extended my hand toward him, introducing myself.
“Chad,” he replied.
“So what do you say? Shall the four of us get some tapas?” I said with a smirk.
“Absolutely!” Abby agreed with a smile.
I could tell by the look on your face that you were anything but pleased.
“Even though the market is more volatile than it used to be – due to Internet trading – it’s still the best place to invest your money.” Chad had been talking non-stop about the stock market since we sat down at the restaurant. “We handle money for many clients in the entertainment industry. I’d love to stop by your office, so I could show you some of our strategies. I’m sure we can get you a better return than whoever you’re working with now.”
“Sounds good. Why don’t you call my office, and we’ll work something out,” I suggested. I glanced in your direction. Your eyes were glued to the menu. You were still avoiding eye contact with me.
“So, Mr. Lewis, what exciting new project are you working on?” Abby asked.
“A hip-hop opera.”
“Really.” Abby’s eyes glistened.
“That’s why I’m in town. I’m talking to some theatre producers about the logistics of putting it on.”
“That must be expensive,” said Chad.
“It is. I’m self-financing it: twenty million dollars.”
“Wow, that’s risky. Too much exposure,” Chad replied. “Why not use other people’s money? I can help you
find investors.”
I shook my head. “With investors comes interference. I believe anything worth doing, involves personal risk.”
Hearing my response, you looked up from the menu. I finally caught your attention. Ten years later, and the look in your eyes still rattled me to my core.
“So you never answered my question, Emily. Are you still playing the violin?” I asked.
The expression on your face turned ice-cold.
“Oh, you two know each other?” said Chad. “Why didn’t you mention anything, Em?”
“A brief encounter… long ago,” you muttered. “I need to go to the restroom,” you then said flatly. You placed your menu down and stood up.
I had clearly upset you. But how? All I had asked was if you still played the violin? I had no idea how much that question would hurt you.
“Actually, I’ve got to go, too,” I said quickly and followed you toward the restroom. I remember thinking, at that point in our lives, restrooms played an important role in our relationship. Not the most romantic notion, but true, nevertheless. If I hadn’t bumped into you in that bathroom in New York, our lives would have been very different. And if I hadn’t followed you toward the bathroom, in that tapas restaurant, I would have never learned the truth about why you left me.
“Emily, wait,” I snapped, catching up to you. I blocked the entrance to the ladies room.
“Get out of my way,” you demanded.
“I need an explanation first.”
A shocked look crossed your face. “An explanation?”
“For why you left? You didn’t even leave a note or send me a text.”
“Are you kidding me?” You laughed sarcastically. “I left because you’re an asshole.”
I threw up my hands. “How am I an asshole? I didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the one who left without even saying goodbye.”
“What did you expect me to do?” you roared. “I found out the truth about you: how you use women; how you fuck them and treat them like trash the next day. How was I supposed to feel when I discovered I had given my virginity to a sex addict?”
“A sex addict?” I repeated in shock. “What the hell made you think I was a sex addict?”
There was a fire burning in your eyes. You stepped up to me and pointed your finger into my chest. “Your mother told me exactly the type of man you are. And thank God she did.”
“My mother?” I repeated.
You nodded. “She stopped by that morning while you were at the studio. Thanks to her, I left your place with a little bit of self-respect. Imagine if I stayed there all day, in your fuckin’ Malibu mansion, and you had never returned?”
“But I was coming back!” I shouted.
“Please,” you said with a roll of your eyes. “What’s the saying? ‘Never believe an addict’.”
“But I’m not a sex addict!” I shouted a bit too loudly. One of the waitresses looked in our direction.
“Keep your voice down,” you seethed.
“But, Emily, you’ve got this all wrong.”
You didn’t want to hear another word from me.
“Just do me a favor, Sebastian. Don’t do any more damage to my life. You took my most prized possessions: my virginity and my love of music. I don’t have much left.”
You turned and walked away. “I’m going home.”
I stood in a daze. What had my mother done? Why would she tell you I was a sex addict? And how could I have taken your love of music? I hired you to perform on Melody’s album to help your career.
When I returned to the table, you and Chad had left. Abby stayed behind.
“Looks like she’s still pissed at you,” said Abby. She took a sip of her sangria and stared at me.
“She thinks I’m a sex addict,” I said, still dumbfounded.
Abby cleared her throat as she put her glass down on the table. “Please, let that be the truth,” she teased.
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About the Authors
Ozlo and Priya Grey are a husband and wife writing team. Their time is consumed with writing, re-writing, editing, and tinkering with Photoshop and Wordpress. When they step away from their desks, they enjoy long walks on the beaches of Southern California.
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Love’s Illusion By Ozlo & Priya Grey
Copyright © 2016 by Ozlo and Priya Grey. All Rights Reserved.
Edition: November 1, 2016
Cover design by Ozlo Grey. Stock image licensed from Shutterstock.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale, or organization is entirely coincidental.
The authors acknowledge the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners
All rights reserved. This book is published by BOA Press LLC. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the authors or publisher. If you would like to do any of the above, please contact BOA Press LLC at boapress[at] gmail.com.
Published in the United States by BOA Press LLC.
ISBN: 978-1-940338-14-9